


honey

by alltheworldsinmyhead



Series: southern wolves [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gendrya - Freeform, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Sansa Targaryen, Sansa is the Lady of Dragonstone, minor Jonerys, no rebellion au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21551620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheworldsinmyhead/pseuds/alltheworldsinmyhead
Summary: The gods give Sansa her crown, her prince, her greatness and her love songs. It's still not enough for her life to taste sweet.
Relationships: (secondary), Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Edric "Ned" Dayne/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen
Series: southern wolves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553089
Comments: 45
Kudos: 191





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This fic is rather tightly connected with my previous story set in the same au - i'll spend this summer by your side and so, I definitely recommend to check out that story first. I suppose it's possible to read honey as a stand-alone, but it may be a bit confusing - to clear things out: in this universe, Targaryens are still the ruling dynasty in Seven Kingdoms, Gendry is the Lord of Storm's End and Arya's his wife. Sansa is married to Elia and Rheagar's son, Aegon, the heir to the Iron Throne. 
> 
> EPIC thanks to my dear Yana, who, yet again, proved to be the best fandom friend and cheerleader one can ask for. You are splendid, darling. <3
> 
> Well then, without further ado - please enjoy ;)

> _When it feels like this_
> 
> _Like a light came on_
> 
> _And you look at me_
> 
> _Like I'm all you want_
> 
> _I got everything_
> 
> _At my fingertips_
> 
> _How can I resist_
> 
> _When it feels like this?_
> 
> _\- Maisie Peters, Feels Like This_
> 
> * * *

It happens at the Storm’s End, like most good things in Sansa’s life lately do. 

Shiera and Alyssa love their cousins with an intense, blinding love only children know, and Arya’s boys love them back just as much; pure and sweet and innocent, they run around the castle grounds in a flurry of little legs and giggles, playing come-to-my-castle and looking for pretty shells on the beach until the night falls.

Sansa knows it’s improper. Or maybe not entirely proper, to be more exact. The girls are princesses of the realm and they should behave as such, not tear their dresses on rose bushes or wrestle with boys on the sand until their long curls are ruined, stiff with saltwater. Aegon does not like it, those visits; every time they come back, trying to get their daughters to do anything for a week or two is a pure nightmare, as the only things they want to do is to ride horses and frolic. And wear breeches, the way aunt Arya does.

But it’s the only issue in their marriage where Sansa puts her foot down; she will visit her sister and she will take Shiera and Alyssa with her. And she will not back down from it.

She hasn’t been to Winterfell ever since she got married. Has lived in the South almost longer than in the North now. And she still longs for it, dreams about it; of endless plains, of frost, of merry feasts and weirwoods’ scarlet leaves. Of Mother and Father, of Robb and Bran and Rickon. Of Gendry, Jon and Theon, direwolves pups and the smell of first snow lingering in the air.

Now, after Lady’s passing, Arya with her smiling grey eyes and long face is the only ounce of home she has left. Sansa’s not giving that up, she refuses to sacrifice it.

Besides, it feels so nice to sit in the gardens with her sister and goodbrother, drinking Arbor red and watching their children shriek with joy when they’re chasing each other endlessly. She wants her daughters to have it, to have those memories. After they’ll flower, they won’t have any chances to be as careless, as unbashful happy. Better to let them enjoy it while it lasts.

Arya and Gendry run Stormlands with wit and will that has many high lords blinking in shock, watching as such a difficult and unfavorable land turns prosperous beyond wildest imagination. The trade flourishes, the ports grow and the new kinds of crops withstand even fiercest storms. The castle itself becomes warmer, more comfortable place than its reputation could ever suggest; the orphanage and school opened within its inner walls fill the corridors with laughter of children and Arya has taken to breeding fine destriers, so there are always some traders from far and near trying to strike a deal and enjoying the hospitality of the Lord and Lady Baratheon.

Some nobles also like to come and stay for a moon or two, from Stormlands and beyond. So, when Sansa steps out of the ship and learns from her sister that Lord Edric Dayne is currently visiting them under the guise of discussing plum wine import, she is not at all surprised. She’s happy, even – she knows Ashara and Arthur quite well and even met Allyria during her wedding to Lord Dondarrion, but she hasn’t any chance to meet Lord of Starfall yet.

Later, she will remember this moment in excruciating detail; the light purple dress she is wearing, Shiera’s little clammy hand in hers, the blinding sun above. The shade of the sky and the smell of horses and warmth.

Edric Dayne’s handsome face, his fair hair and the dimple in his chin as he smiles at her so kindly and lowers his head in a bow elegant enough to belong in the songs of courtly romance.

‘’Your Grace.’’ He greets her, pressing his lips to her knuckles delicately, as a petal falling on her skin. ‘’What an honor to finally meet you.’’

‘’The honor’s all mine, Lord Dayne.’’ She answers and, somewhere at the back of her mind, she realizes that her heart suddenly is galloping in her chest, that the world is swimming in front of her eyes and that her legs tremble slightly under her dress.

She’s all hot, the laces of her dress are too tight. Edric’s tall and lean, and is staring at her with such poorly concealed awe that Sansa can hardly believe her own eyes.

That’s how she thought it would feel, meeting Prince Aegon. But it did not, not even once, not even when she was a woman wedded and bedded. Not a single time her magnificent, beautiful husband, as noble as one can be, made her breath hitch the way this pretty Dornishman just did.

Later, she will blame her blush on the unforgiving heat. But the truth is, it was the first one she gave to Ned. 

*

In the evening, they send children to sleep in the nursery and Arya orders the servants to bring dry Dornish wine from the cellars before she places a cyvasse board on the table.

‘’There’s no way I’m playing this godsdamned game, Arry.’’ Gendry furrows his brow. ‘’You know I’m going to lose anyway. Besides, you will cheat your way to winning, just as you always do.’’

‘’I do not cheat.’’ Arya answers calmly, setting the tiles in place. ‘’However, it is true that you are helpless at cyvasse.’’

Smiling wickedly, Sansa’s sister flops down on her husband’s lap, lacing her arms around his neck.

‘’It’s good that you have other redeeming qualities.’’

‘’Yeah, we should thank gods for that.’’ Gendry grumbles, but his eyes crinkle with mirth and he places his hands on Arya’s hips instinctively. ‘’At least I’m easy to look at.’’

And Arya; wild, untamed Arya, giggles and rests her head on Gendry’s chest, sighing in contentment when he wraps his arms around her waist.

Something within Sansa’s chest stirs painfully, bitter taste blooming on her tongue, so she takes another sip of wine to wash it off. She’s happy that Arya’s happy, she truly is. Sometimes, she just don’t want to see it, don’t want to notice that. How glorious they look together, how well they fit one another, how easy it all is for them.

She tears her eyes away from the pair and, inevitably, she meets Edric Dayne’s quiet, blue stare.

Men used to look at her like that, when she first arrived at the Court. But it feels oceans and eons ago, before she was Princess Sansa Targaryen, before she was a failure with a womb that would only produce girls or remain empty.

“Your Grace, do you enjoy playing?’’ Edric asks her politely, playing with one of the tiles he snatched from the table.

‘’I told you to call me by my name, Lord Dayne.’’ Sansa answers just as stiffly. ‘’I do like cyvasse well enough, but I must admit my goodbrother is right; my sister is so far unbeatable at it. I am personally much better at cards.’’

‘’Don’t sell yourself short, Sansa.’’ Gendry smiles from across the table. ‘’You would be winning if Arya wasn’t cheating.’’

‘’Gods, drop it finally, please!’’

Edric chuckles softly, shaking his head.

‘’You two are impossible.’’

‘’Aren’t they?’’ escapes Sansa’s lips before she can stop herself, but before she can mentally berate herself for being so informal, Edric’s eyes crinkle as he starts to laugh.

‘’I think you can attest to that more than anyone else, my lady. ‘’

‘’If you both don’t like the way my marriage operates, you are free not to visit.’’ Arya huffs in mock-offense, settling more comfortably on Gendry’s lap and clapping her hands. ‘’Fine. To assure no one will cheat, we can play in pairs. What do you think about that?’’

Turns out everyone thinks it’s a brilliant idea and soon Sansa’s sitting right next to Edric; she can feel the warmth of his body even though the material of their clothes and their hands meet once or twice when they’re reaching for the tiles at the same time. They whisper while discussing strategies. Edric even manages to make her giggle by whooping cheerfully when they score a point; she covers her mouth with her hand daintily, but her shoulders still tremble a little and yes, she’s blushing again.

 _What’s going on with me? I act like a maiden just flowered who was asked for a favor during a tourney._ – she’s scolding herself later, making her way through the corridors to her chambers, gallantly escorted by Edric who insisted it would be improper to let his future Queen wander unaccompanied.

They walk in silence interrupted only by the even sound of their steps; Sansa involuntarily notices how they’re walking in the same rhythm, evenly matched. Her rights hand itches painfully when their fingers brush accidentally; her heart does not stop flutter. She feels like a bird perched on a branch, about to soar for the first time.

They briefly stop by the nursery’s door and Sansa slips inside for a second to kiss her daughters’ foreheads goodnight – they are deeply asleep in silk and ermine furs, pink-cheeked, all-tangled up with their cousins like puppies napping on a pile.

How terribly improper.

How lovely, how sweet, how heart-breaking.

Alyssa and Shiera, her disappointing babies born out of duty and indifference. And yet, she loves them so, so much that she’s sometimes afraid her heart will break clean in half and all this love will spill out, thick and golden like honey.

Edric’s waiting for her by the window; moonlight paints him in silvers and greys, the colors of Lady’s fur and Arya’s eyes, stealing gold from his hair and blue from his pupils. He looks like a vision, standing here. Like a shadow; like a dream.

But he’s neither and his hand is very warm and very real when it delicately touches her elbow, helping her on the slippery staircase. The smell of him envelops her tenderly. It reminds her of wine and pomegranates, and she can almost taste it on her tongue, this sweetness.

She wishes that this walk would last forever. She wishes they never stopped.

‘’Goodnight, Princess Sansa.’’ He softly bids her farewell by her door, bowing deeply and gracefully in front of her.

‘’Goodnight, Lord Dayne.’’ She echoes, curtsying.

The corners of his mouth slowly rise up, until he’s smiling at her in the most unashamed, unapologetic beam she has ever seen. It feels like looking at the sun.

‘’It was an utmost pleasure for me, meeting you today, my lady.’’ Edric whispers, lacing his hands behind his back, his eyes still glued to hers, just like they were during the entire day. ‘’You are an excellent cyvasse partner.’’

‘’Likewise, my lord. The pleasure was all mine.’’ She seriously hopes her voice does not tremble, because she cannot really hear anything she’s saying with the sound of blood humming in her ears so loudly.

‘’My friends call me Ned, my lady. Can I ask of you to also call me this way?’’

‘’Of course Lord Da- of course, Ned.’’

‘’Maybe – maybe we could enjoy a ride together tomorrow? Arya told me that there’s a lovely beach nearby.’’

And even though Sansa is afraid of horses and she hates riding, and she truly should avoid the Stormland’s harsh sun which is very unfavorable to her complexion-

Her ‘’yes.’’ is soft, and small, and fluttery, but delivered without an ounce of hesitation.

The door makes a loud, unpleasant sound when it shuts close. With her back pressed to the wood, Sansa covers her heated face with her hands and stands still for a long, long time, waiting for her bird heart to quiet down.

*

And then, so it goes; on and on it spins.

They’re spending afternoons on the picnics on the beach, walking on the wet seaweed exposed by the retreating tide and watching as kids look for tiny shards of amber. Sansa lets waves wash over her feet and Ned spreads Dornish plums and blood oranges in front of her, with their skin colorful like glistening gemstones.

The evenings are long, stretched into infinity; she’s getting drunk on their shared laughter and the sparkles in his eyes, lets him hold her hand under the table while they’re playing cards. And, when Gendry plays with Arya’s hair or Arya kisses his cheek when she yet again wins, Sansa does not feel the need to look away, not even in slightest.

But mornings are by far her favorite; when Ned sits down next to her daughters as they’re breaking their fast and asking them about their favorite colors and favorite bedtime stories, entertaining them with tales of Starfall, of mountains and deserts that they have never seen. He’s never tired of their never-ending questions, of their babble. Once, he braids Shiera’s hair into an elaborate up-do, and she refuses to let it loose for three full days.

Sansa’s not even close to being discreet and she knows it; there’s no way she could hide her shining eyes and trembling hands, her girlish giggle. She’s not even sure she wants to hide all of it. Arya, ever observant, keeps her eyes set on her at all times, watching her like a hawk with her eyebrows arched in contemplation. But, for whatever reason, she stays silent and does not ask about anything or offer her opinion, for which Sansa’s incredibly grateful.

Dragonstone is as distant as Winterfell during those three weeks. So distant, it could as well not exist at all.

Shiera and Alyssa bask in the sunlight until their skin turns brown like sugar, they catch fish with their bare hands under the diligent supervision of castle’s staff and they ‘re constantly pleading to _just stay one more week Mother, just a few more days, please, please, we’re begging you._

Sansa’s watching her freckled face in the mirror; her loose hair; her pink cheeks. And she finds herself sending raven after raven to her husband, making yet another excuse, postponing their return home for yet some another time. But, just as the summer cannot last forever, even this glee that she experiences must come to an end – Aegon eventually loses his patience and orders her, very firmly, to return until the end of the moon.

The same evening, in the quiet privacy of the woods, Sansa lets Ned help her down from the saddle and does not let him slip his hands from her grip. Breathless and in the haze, she kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, until all the laws of gods and man become misty and translucent like spider’s webs.

She kisses him until she sheds her cloak and her gown and her shift, and, lastly, her name; and in his arms, with the dampness of the mossy ground chilling her to the bone, she’s Sansa Stark again – golden and young, so full of dreams that they shine through her eyes like light spilling through a stained glass window.

‘’Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.’’ He sings her name against her skin, lets it out like a prayer. ‘’You are so beautiful, so perfect.’’

He presses short, small pecks on her hipbones, hushes her protests with the hot licks of his tongue and brings her into oblivion once, twice. When he slips inside her, her whole body hums with delight, trembles with anticipation.

Her defiance, her rebellion and her sin taste so, so sweet. So delicious.

It feels like waking up from deep sleep; like the first real thing she has experienced ever since she swore herself to Aegon in the Sept of Baelor years ago.

*

Dragonstone- _home_ , she supposes – welcomes them with harsh winds chilling their flesh to the bone, with household staff glaring at Sansa with thinly-veiled interest and with Aegon; beautiful and lean as always, pressing kisses to the girls’ foreheads when they curtsy in front of him and immediately sending them to their Septa.

‘’You were greatly missed, my lady.’’ He greets Sansa and something strangely soft gleams in his eyes. She thinks that it really might be true; Aegon has no greater love for her than she has for him, but while she played with their daughters on the beach and flirted with Ned under the Stormlands’ sky, her husband spent his days alone on this grim scrap of the land. Usually, Queen Elia would come to keep him company whenever Sansa is visiting Arya, but this time a sudden illness kept her from traveling.

So he had nothing and no one, just stone dragons and sea, and books.

Incomparable with the afternoons when Sansa would sit beside Arya in her solar, trading stories from their childhood until they were teary-eyed from nostalgia.

‘’I also longed to see you again, my lord.’’

Instantly, insincerity festers on her tongue, burns the roof of her mouth like acid. She barely keeps herself from spitting those words on the sand, if only to see if they would crystalize it, turn it hard as a stone.

At night, as Aegon grunts and sweats above her, his grip bruising her hips and his breath hot on her clavicle, Sansa’s laying still and dreaming of Ned’s blue eyes, his sweet smile, his delicate fingers dancing on the inner side of her thighs, spreading them easily for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She did not expect to see Ned again, especially not at Storm's End. But life has a funny way of surprising her and twisting her desires in the most unexpected way imaginable.

> _I cry like a river_
> 
> _Fist fight with the mirror_
> 
> _I guess life ain't all glitter_
> 
> _I wish I never met you_
> 
> _It takes time to get bigger_
> 
> _Shine bright, find a rhythm_
> 
> _And I’ll try not be bitter_
> 
> _I just wish I never met you_
> 
> _But it's a little too late_
> 
> _\- Oh Wonder, I Wish I Never Met You_

* * *

The raven comes while they are staying in King’s Landing.

Summer heat makes the air in the city stuffy and unpleasant, stinky to the point of being unbearable, but it’s all worth getting through just for the company. Aegon spends a lot of time with his mother and Lord Arthur, and Sansa finds herself, more often than not, sitting in Daenerys’ and Jon’s airy chambers and listening to the stories of their travels to Essos, bouncing one of their kids on her knee.

When she gets the news, she’s gushing over little Prince Duncan, letting him tug on her hair and praising his uncanny likeness to Jon ( _He even has the same frown, Dany! Have you ever seen such expression on a child’s face?_ ) when they bring her the letter on a golden tray. Just a slip of parchment, wrapped around with a yellow ribbon, but she does not need to break the seal to know what she’ll find inside.

Another babe. Another child.

Suddenly, little prince feels very heavy on her hip; so heavy, that she has to sit down on the armchair and set him on her lap. Numbers are swimming in her head, making her dizzy. Alyssa is already one and ten now, tall like Sansa herself, graceful and bright. Shiera has just had her eight name day. Her girls are not babies anymore and suddenly, realization downs on Sansa, squeezing the breath from her lungs; this is all she will ever get. Borrowed children, dropped into her arms for a moment or two. She will never again feel tiny kicks inside her. She will never awaken in the middle of the night by newborn’s thin wails again.

That’s it.

Borrowed children. Borrowed happiness.

Unless, of course, it’s stolen.

And so, Sansa gently hands little boy back to Dany and goes to find her husband; _wouldn’t it be nice for them to come to Storm’s End on their way back to Dragonstone and congratulate her sister on her pregnancy?_

*

They meet with Arya halfway through Stormlands’ forest; she rides towards their party on her beautiful mare and bursts into laughter when Shiera and Alyssa almost jump out of the wheelhouse to greet her.

Under fine, yellow tunic, her belly is easily noticeable, already big enough that it makes it hard for Arya to slip from the saddle to the ground. Even being so far along, she has apparently managed to outride her companions as it takes a few minutes for Storm’s End guards to also appear on the road. Sansa’s not even in slightest surprised.

When they embrace, she inhales deeply, smelling grass and sea salt on her sister’s clothes, the aroma so unmistakably _Arya_ that she just has to smile.

‘’Nice meeting you, goodsister.’’ Aegon bows politely after dismounting the horse, his brow furrowed when he asks: ‘’And where is your husband, if I may ask?’’

‘’Hello, goodbrother.’’ Arya lets go of Sansa and curtsies; there is mischief sparkling in her eyes and a loop-sided grin on her mouth. ‘’He was held up at home. It’s smallfolk petitions day and the whole affair usually drags long until evening, so I decided to escort you alone.’’

The corners of Aegon’s lips twitch a little and Sansa can almost hear the thoughts brewing in his head; of Arya, riding on a sand steed practically alone in the woods, heavily pregnant. Of Arya, leaving the castle possibly without her husband’s approval. Of Arya, period.

Aegon is a good man, but he has his own ideas about how a woman should behave and Arya simply delights in challenging his limits of understanding.

‘’Well then.’’ He clears his throat awkwardly. ‘’We thank you for your assistance, my lady. Girls, come back to wheelhouse please, we’ll resume the ride.’’

Arya blows a kiss to Shiera and Alyssa when they let go of her skirts, making them giggle. She winks to Sansa and jumps back on her mare before any of the guards rushing to help her can even come close.

‘’Welcome to Stormlands, my sister, my goodbrother. It’s our greatest pleasure to host you.’’ She says formally, proud and dignified. With her hair loose underneath a golden antler headpiece, a narrow sword by her side and the round curve of her belly, she's every inch the picture of a warrior queen she has always longed to be. She looks so at home, surrounded by greenery. Guards stare at her adoringly, their lines parting in front of her as the sea waves, so she could lead the way. And Sansa cannot help but think _she was born for this, she was put on this earth to end up exactly here and now._

*

They're taking their afternoon tea in the gardens, when the stray arrow flies with loud whizz inches from Gendry’s head, disappearing in the rose bushes behind their table and making Sansa shriek in terror.

But while Aegon shots to his feet, knocking his chair onto the grass and Sansa clutches her chest with her hands, both Gendry and Arya continue to serenely sip from their respective cups, absolutely non-disturbed.

‘’You don’t need to be afraid. Steffon’s still quite unsure with a bow, I’m afraid, but he hasn’t harmed anyone so far and I doubt he will.’’ Arya explains and, as on cue, little dark head emerges from in-between the greenery, boy’s cheeks blushed from embarrassment.

‘’Mother, father, I’m so sorry.’’ He mumbles, sheepishly, keeping his eyes downcast.

‘’It’s fine, no harm done.’’ Gendry reaches out and affectionately ruffles his son’s hair, making him laugh. ‘’But be more careful next time, you understand me?’’

‘’Could you show me one more time, please?’’ Steffon pleads passionately, whipping his head up to look at Arya, of all people, and Sansa somehow hears Aegon’s surprised gasp before it even emerges from his mouth.

‘’Sure, sweetling.’’ Arya raises from her chair, the hem of her light yellow dress brushing the grass when she takes a few steps towards the courtyard. ‘’Excuse me for a second, I’ll be back-‘’

‘’Maybe I can help with that? I’m not a bad archer myself.’’ Aegon offers suddenly, making the whole table fall silent.

Little Steffon’s cherry face falls a bit, but he quickly collects himself, flashing his missing teeth in a sweet smile.

‘’I would be honored, your grace.’’ He sneaks a glance at Gendry as if he was looking for the confirmation that he used the right words. Sansa notices how her goodbrother nods solemnly before a grin blooms on his face as soon as Steffon turns away.

‘’Well, that should be interesting.’’ Gendry murmurs to Sansa when they follow Aegon and Arya to the courtyard and she has to try her best not to giggle.

Aegon’s not a bad shot indeed and he lands a few decent arrows, giving Steffon some advice on his grip and posture before he urges the boy to try for himself.

And Steffon refuses, because _of course he does_. Only Aegon could think that he wouldn’t, because he does not know her nephews at all. They are all Gendry; dark-haired, blue-eyed and head over heels for Arya.

‘’Thank you for your tips, my- my grace.’’ Sansa bites on her lip at the mistake and she’s quite sure Arya snickers quietly behind her back. ‘’But I wanted to see my Mother shoot. Can you, Mother? Please?’’

Silently, Arya takes the bow from Aegon’s hands, readjusting her stance a little bit so that her swollen belly won’t get in a way and letting her arrow fly.

Her aim is true, of course, it is. It lands perfectly in the center of a moving target, piercing it with such a force that the squire holding the board drops it in fear of getting injured.

‘’Well.’’ Sansa’s husband utters after a brief pause. ‘’I guess it’s true what they’re saying; you can get the woman out of North, but you can’t get North out of the woman.’’

Gendry, who so far has been a silent, unmoving presence by Sansa’s side, chuckles quietly.

‘’That’s right Your Grace, but please tell me: why would you even try to do such thing?’’

Arya gives the bow to delighted Steffon, a little smile dancing in the corners of her mouth. She lets her husband take her hand and kiss her cheek tenderly, and Sansa cannot help but echo her goodbrother’s question back in her head _why would you try to make a woman forget what she’s made of?_

*

Aegon receives a raven from his father, urging him to come back to the capital just as they’ve began preparations for homecoming. But before Sansa can even ask how much time they’ll be staying in King’s Landing, her husband does something that stuns her, leaving her breathless and silent.

‘’I think you should stay here, my lady, at least until your sister gives birth.’’ He says, dropping the quill on the desk and turning around on his chair to face her. ‘’I will take Alyssa with me, she ought to spend more time in the court anyway. But you and Shiera, you will feel better here than all alone in Dragonstone.’’

Sansa’s heart clenches in her chest painfully. There’s something very soft about Aegon’s offer, very sincere.

‘’It will be at least another four moons before Arya enters the birthing bed, my lord.’’ She manages to stutter out, clenching her fingers on the material of her skirts so tightly that her knuckles turn white. _Four moons, five moons even. Here, at Storm’s End, with Arya and Gendry. Four moons of summer._ ‘’Are you sure that the resolution of this land dispute in the Reach will take you so much time?’’

‘’Well, Tyrells and Hightowers are both stubborn bunches, convinced that they deserve far more than they have.’’ Aegon chuckles bitterly, ‘’So I’m actually more concerned if we will manage to settle it so quickly. It does not make sense for you to stay without company when you can easily have it here.’’

Sansa takes a few steps and drops on the chair next to her husband, slowly reaching her hand out to lace his fingers with his.

‘’Thank you.’’ She whispers, her thick with emotion.

Aegon stares down at their hands and then raises his eyes to hers, a small smile appearing on his face.

 _He has his father’s eyes._ Sansa thinks for the millionth time. _Sad eyes, tired eyes._

‘’No need to thank me, Sansa. I know I have not been – the easiest husband lately. I want to make it up to you somehow.’’

Aegon’s a bright man, clever one. He could probably give half of the maesters in Oldtown a run for their money if he wanted to. And Sansa’s not stupid either, so she gets exactly what he means.

_You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not, so you deserve a leave once in a while._

Finding no good enough response, Sansa nods slowly and comes back to her needlework, biting on her lip hard enough to draw blood.

*

They’re walking through the Weeping Town’s bustling streets, Steffon’s clammy hand in Sansa’s and Shiera’s long, fair hair shining in the sun, when the crowd parts for a second and a flash of gold hits her eyes, making them water.

Her breath catches.

_How-_

Gold and purple, and _Ned standing still_ in-between stalls, staring right at her with the most desperate happiness written on his face.

Sansa whips her head to face Arya, who meets her eyes unabashedly, her lips curved into a smile and her hand warm, when she reaches out and squeezes Sansa’s hand.

‘’You – did you send for him?” Sansa’s voice is high-pitched, thin; she sounds like a pet songbird Queen Elia keeps in her chambers, taught to utter a few phrases in Common Tongue.

‘’Yes, I did.’’ Arya rubs her belly absent-mindedly before waving at Ned to come closer. ‘’We live short, painful lives Sansa. It’s about time you stopped denying yourself the little happiness you can have.’’

_Stolen happiness._

_‘’_ I don’t know what you can possibly mean by this.’’ Her cheeks must be aflame, for how harshly they burn.

And Arya, _godsdamned Arya_ has the audacity to wink at her in response.

‘’Sure, sweet sister. Sure I don’t.’’

*

With Shiera as big as she is and not requiring Sansa’s assistance most of the time, Sansa finds herself at loss of excuses to avoid Ned.

And at even loss of answer to the dilemma if she really does want to avoid him.

This one time in the forest was supposed to be just it; one time. One sweet, grand escape that she could cradle in her hands and keep close to her heart when she needed it. One act of rebellion that was supposed to last her for a lifetime. And it was easy enough to drown any longing that she might have felt when Starfall was eons away and she was always by Aegon’s side.

Now, Aegon is in King’s Landing. And oh, she has forgotten how blue Ned’s eyes are, how beautiful his laughter is, how lovingly he glances at her from underneath his lashes, patience and longing and caution ringing in every single word he directs towards her.

How quickly she forgets her age and status. How quickly she forgets her husband.

How utterly shameless she feels, devoid of any sense of duty or property when she trembles underneath the sheets at night, wishing it was Ned caressing her breasts, not her own hands.

Arya grows heavier and bigger, and rarely leaves her chambers, irritated at everything beyond measure and snapping at everyone to the point when only Gendry and his endless patience are the suitable company for her. It crosses Sansa’s mind, once or twice, if all this biting her sister engages in is mostly for show and with some interior motive; sometimes, Arya grumbles for Sansa and Ned to _just leave her alone already for gods’ sake_ , but just as Sansa’s closing the door, Arya’s scowl transforms into a playful smile.

And sometimes, behind those closed doors, quiet laughter of her sister and goodbrother can be heard.

*

‘’Is this the letter from your daughter, lady Sansa?’’

‘’Oh, yes. Yes, it is.’’

‘’Is she faring well in the capital?’’

‘’As well as one can, considering King’s Landing unfortunate climate. Lord Dayne, would you mind sitting here with me?’’

‘’I recall asking of you to call me Ned, my lady.’’

‘’Of course. I’m sorry for forgetting.’’

_I’m sorry, but I cannot say your name without remembering how I moaned it into your mouth, whimpered it when no one heard us but the trees._

Ned flops on the bench by her side and fixes his eyes on the blooming bushes in front of them; she uses this moment to look at him blatantly, taking notice of the small imprints that passing time left on his face. He still looks unfairly young, unfairly dreamy. Soft, golden curls fall on his forehead as if he was just a lad. But there are small laughter lines around his mouth, slight wrinkle in-between his brows.

She wants to kiss them off, smoothen them out.

‘’Excuse my straightforwardness, Lord Ned, but I always wondered… why have you never married?’’

The question escapes her lips before she can stop it; drops heavily in between them and she swears that, for a second or two, even bees stop buzzing, even birds stop singing. Everything waits in silence when Ned slowly turns her face towards her and chuckles softly.

His hand reaches out and he laces their fingers together as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

‘’I think you already know why, Sansa.’’

Her name blooms like a flower when he utters it; burns with intense oranges and delicate pinks, steals her breath away.

He keeps his bluebell eyes staring into hers, still and unwavering and Sansa suddenly remembers how she was sitting on the same bench many, many years ago and asking Arya if she’s in love with Gendry.

If Arya asked her the same question about Ned, her answer would be no. No, she’s not in love with Ned. She doesn’t even know him that well.

But she’s quite sure that she’s in love with the way he makes her feel.

‘’I still want to hear you say it, Ned.’’

She’s feeling every blade of grass underneath her slippers, every blow of sea breeze caressing her skin, every flutter of butterfly wings in the garden. She’s feeling alive, more alive than ever, when Ned stands up from the bench and sinks on one knee in front of her.

‘’I’ll marry If I ever find a woman who can match you.’’ He states, loud and clear. ‘’So far, I haven’t managed to do so and I doubt I ever will.’’

In her defense, her blood hums in her veins and her heart flutters.

In her defense, her husband has never told her that he loves her.

In her defense, she’s old and tired and tired of feeling like that.

In her defense, she simply can do nothing else but bury her fingers in his soft curls and lower her mouth to his.

*

‘’Your husband,’’ Ned says when they’re laying in each other’s arms in the guest quarters, Sansa almost dozing off from exhaustion before his words wake her up like cold shower.

‘’What about him?’’ she asks warily, staring at the ceiling insistently, avoiding Ned’s stare. ‘’Rather a strange moment to mention him.’’

‘’I just wondered– is he not good for you? I mean, if he has ever hurt you… you should tell me. Please tell me, Sansa.’’

She sighs at that, letting out air with a small huff.

‘’I wish he was unkind.’’ She states slowly, trying to convey her thoughts properly. ‘’I think I would feel better about not loving him if he treated me badly. But he doesn’t. He has never been anything but perfectly decent towards me. And yet. ‘’

The absurdity of the situation almost makes her laugh. She’s dissecting her failed marriage with her secret lover. What a good princess she is.

‘’Maybe you are just not well suited to one another.’’ Ned traces the curve of her hip with his fingertip, making goosebumps erupt on her skin. ‘’I don’t think it’s easy to withstand all this pressure you’re under when you don’t have a good partner to help you shoulder it.’’

‘’I think I’m not the good partner for him.’’ She admits quietly, as Ned’s hand appears on the curve of her waist and travels higher, dancing across her ribs, teasing the delicate underside of her breast. ‘’I mean, look at me now.’’

‘’I am looking at you.’’ There’s laughter in his voice; the humorless one, almost grim and so unlike Ned that she immediately raises her eyes to his face. ‘’I am always looking at you. Your husband’s a fool, Sansa. Any man who does not worship you is a fool.’’

She basks in those words. Even if it’s empty praise uttered by a man who does only know her like that – bare and trembling, warm and eager – she cannot help but want to believe in them.

‘’So worship me.’’ She sighs, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him down, pressing small kisses underneath his jaw until he groans. ‘’Worship me, like I’m supposed to be worshipped.’’

*

Even if her days are sweet and shameless, her nights are everything but.

It always starts the same; Queen Elia’s tear-stained face, her big dark eyes widened in shock. Aunt Lyanna’s angry blush. Court ladies crowding around Sansa, pulling on her hair, tearing the gown off her, screaming and screaming and screaming,

_Whore, whore, whore, whore,_

until she’s naked, shivering from shame; one and five again, she’s standing in front of Septa Mordane who purses her lips tightly into a straight line and scowls in disgust before she spits on her.

It always ends the same also; her mother, clad in a grey dress embroidered with Tully’s silver touts ( _Family. Duty. Honor. All the things she betrayed, disregarded, forgot about)_ and sobbing desperately, hiding her face in her hands.

It’s been years since Sansa last saw Mother, so she’s forever preserved in her memory just like this – as the still young and the most beautiful woman she has ever seen, the epitome of grace. As ladylike as a Queen ought to be and as strong as the castle-forged steel.

‘’You have brought dishonor on your name and on our name, on our house.’’ Catelyn Stark cries in her dreams endlessly, not letting Sansa come closer to comfort her. ‘’You are not a daughter of North anymore.’’

*

‘’Won’t Gendry be mad that you deny him your marriage bed, Arya?’’ Sansa asks shyly, laying down on the mattress next to her sister and raising her eyes to glance at the beautiful golden canopy above their heads, embroidered so as to resemble the starry night sky.

‘’Oh, I would like to see him even trying to be mad.’’ Arya huffs, placing her hands on top of her belly. ‘’He should be happy I even let him in most of the times, with how it usually ends up for me.’’

Suddenly, a small bump of a foot or maybe a hand shows up and Sansa cannot help but press her fingers against it.

‘’Hello sweetling, it’s me, your aunt Sansa, can you hear me?’’

The babe pushes against her palm and Sansa laughs.

‘’This is so weird. I’ll never get used to it.’’ Arya begins rubbing her temples, her eyelids fluttering when she yawns. ‘’I’m getting too old for this anyway.’’

‘’Don’t be ridiculous. You can still have half a dozen children more.’’

Sansa wishes she did not say those words out loud. For they sound every bit as bitter and resigned as they did in her head.

Gods damn her if she’s lying, but if she could ask for one thing and have it granted, she would ask someone to take the jealousy of her sister’s children away from her. Cause Arya does not deserve it, not after what she’s been through.

It’s a common knowledge that Arya has lost her first babe and that her third was born too soon, purple and tiny and wasted, the girl who was supposed to be showered with love and kisses. But Sansa thinks she may be one of the very few people who actually know how it happened.

Arya told her that the one and only time she came to visit Sansa at the Dragonstone when this wound – on her mind and body alike- was still so fresh and tender and Gendry send her away so she could heal away from Storm’s End. She told her that she fell off the startled horse and got trampled, that their steward ran through the courtyard with her in his arms as she was bleeding, that she was so close to dying that her life flashed in front of her eyes.

‘’Gendry wanted to put the stallion to the sword when Serena – when Serena was born.’’ Arya narrated quietly, her fingers picking on the hem of her gown. ‘’And I told him that if he does it, he can look both for a new horse and for a new wife. We had a terrible fight. I was half-mad with grief, really. We both were. ’’

She signed heavily and shivered, scooting a little bit closer to the fire burning in the fireplace. With her eyes fixed on the dancing flames and long hair loose, Arya had never looked more alike to their mother.

‘’She was so small, Sansa. Gendry could fit her in his palm. And she fought for so long, even if everyone knew it was hopeless. It tore my heart in half, watching her trying so desperately to breathe.’’

And Sansa did not know what to say, couldn’t find any words of consolation; could not even imagine this kind of pain and suffering when she didn’t bury a child of her own.

So she cannot hold Arya’s three strong, bright boys against her, nor this babe. It was not Arya’s fault that Sansa’s womb was apparently half-barren, though nobody would’ve suspected that when she had Alyssa so quickly after her wedding. Everyone, including Sansa, was absolutely sure she’ll bear one child after another and half of them boys. But Shiera came three years after her older sister and then nothing, nothing but moon blood staining her smallclothes. And not for lack of trying either.

Maybe this is somehow, in some way, the punishment for her mindless, childish stupidity and cruelty. The price she’s paying for her pride and for all the vile, ugly things she used to call Arya when they were girls still not flowered.

If so, she thinks it’s a little too high.

‘’You also, you know it, right?’’ Arya crooks her head to face her, her grey eyes sharp and focused in the candlelight. ‘’You and your husband act as if you were a crone and there was nothing left to do for you but to wed your girls and fade into oblivion. But Sansa, you are not a crone. You are still so young. You’re life’s not over yet.’’

The only time she feels young is when she’s in the sheets with a man who is not her husband. And although Sansa knows Arya knows, those words just simply won’t leave her mouth. There are lines she refuses to cross.

‘’When did we grow up, Arya? Sometimes I think just a moon ago we were all in Godswood, swimming in the pools. Sometimes, I can hardly believe that we truly used to be those kids.’’ She whispers, her eyes suddenly burning with tears. ‘’I wanted to be grown so bad. ‘’

‘’And I did not want to be a lady, to have a lord for a husband or to bear him children. Look at us now.’’ Her sister smiles, but they're something wistful about this smile, sad almost. ‘’I wanted to do great things in my life, be something more than everyone wanted me to be.’’

‘’You are doing great things in life. And you are more than anyone could’ve predicted. Just look at Stormlands, gods, Arya. You have elevated it to the most prosperous kingdom in Westeros. All this trade, crops, everything. And your marriage – I don’t think there is a woman in all Seven Kingdoms who would take a look at you two and not crave what you have.’’

Something akin to tears shines also in Arya’s eyes when she reaches out to take Sansa’s hand in hers, squeezing it painfully.

‘’And yet. ‘’

Sansa exhales deeply, closing her eyes. _And yet._

*

Arya’s little girl is sweet beyond all measure; so sweet in fact, that her father and mother can hardly believe it. Tiny as a button and calmer than any Stark or Baratheon babe has any right being, Ravella takes to the breast without any problems and coos softly whenever someone picks her up. When Gendry’s listening to petitions, she’s napping with her head pillowed on his strong chest, her hands spread like miniature starfishes on the blanket she’s swaddled with.

‘’She was born smiling, this one.’’ Arya sighs, lulling her to sleep.

Sansa’s sitting on the bed with her hands laced on her lap and laughs at that.

‘’How do you speak of it as if it was something bad?’’

‘’It’s a cruel world out there. And it breaks soft hearts easily.’’ Arya lowers her head to press a delicate kiss on Ravella’s round cheek before she sets her down into the cradle. Silently, Sansa wonders how she could ever thing her sister is not fit to be a mother while she loves her children so absolutely and cares for them with such a devotion. She should’ve known even she-wolves have their pups.

‘’It will be hard, parting with her.’’ Sansa sighs, leaning her head on the bedpost. Aegon and Alyssa are to arrive in a fortnight, stopping in Storm’s End only for a few days to restock before making their way to Dragonstone. And taking Sansa and Shiera with them.

‘’Not only with Ella, I assume,’’ Arya says quietly, dropping on the bed next to her. ‘’And please, spare me your _I don’t know what you mean_ -s. Had enough of them for a while now.’’

Sansa’s chuckle is devoid of any mirth. Well, her sister has been exceptionally patient through this whole thing.

‘’Yes. Not only with Ella. But it does not matter, not even in slightest.’’

‘’Sansa-‘’

‘’No.’’ she shakes her head firmly. She had a lot of time to think about this whole issue while Arya was recovering after the birth. ‘’No, Arya. It was never meant to last. ‘’

She’s not a girl. She is a woman grown, wedded and bedded, a mother and a princess. Time to behave as such.

‘’If Aegon ever found out, he would take the girls away from me and I cannot risk it. He would send me back North in disgrace. It would break Mother’s and Father’s hearts. He would probably even find a way to punish you and Gendry, for your help.’’

‘’I would deny ever seeing anything, knowing anything, you know that.’’ Arya protests fiercely, raising her eyes to meet Sansa’s. ‘’And Gendry also.’’

‘’I know.’’ she reaches out to squeeze her sister’s little hand, calloused from the bowstring and sword handle, and smiles. ‘’You’re fighters, both of you. But it is not a fight that can be won. You know full well what would happen with Ned if someone learned about our affair, don’t you?’’

_They would put him to the sword or they would hang him, if he was not fast enough to escape to Free Cities. Maybe they would still send people after him, even if he did manage to run away. He would loose Starfall and everything else too._

Arya nods, but soon the corners of her mouth drop and her lower lip starts to tremble a bit.

‘’I just want you to be happy.’’

‘’And I was happy, I really was. I’ll cherish it forever.’’

All the kisses and touches, all the talks, all this laughter. Life was sweet, thick and golden.

‘’Thank you.’’ She leans her head down on her little sister’s shoulder, closing her eyes and sighing: ‘’Thank you so much.’’

*

‘’You should be the lady of Starfall,’’ Ned told her, when they were laying naked on the sweet-smelling grass; his seed was drying on her thighs and he was playing with her hair. ‘’For you are as beautiful as a star, my love.’’

Flowery words, so perfect. What are they worth now? Just a folly, a stupid dream, a stupid mistake.

For Sansa comes back to Dragonstone, weak and heartbroken, and her moon blood does not come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter - the last one is coming soon, so stay tuned! I'd really LOVE to hear your thoughts about this story, so please leave me a comment >3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ''Sincerest congratulations on your happiness, your Grace.   
> I share it, with all my heart.''

> _Undone, my silhouette, it's all that is left of a broken heart_
> 
> _Leave all of my regrets to sink like shipwrecks_
> 
> _Through oceans dark_
> 
> _In the dust I wrote my name_
> 
> _And from the ruins, hopes were praised_
> 
> _'Cause all that's messed can be replaced in time_
> 
> _Don't go holding your breath_
> 
> _You know that I'm not done yet_
> 
> _There's still a fight in me left_
> 
> _Don't go shouting out loud_
> 
> _That you're claiming the crown_
> 
> _I'm done but not out_

  * > Birdy, Silhouette




* * *

Sansa enters her birthing bed in Dragonstone trembling from pain and half-mad with fear, and she does not even know what she’s more afraid of; if her babe betrays its parentage, or if she’s not able to love it the way she loves her daughters.

_‘’Bastards are pitiful creatures. Their parents' sin leaves a stain on them, tainting their character forever.’’_ Septa Mordan used to school her and Arya when they were just girls, and although Sansa knows now that many lessons of her former teachers turned out to be very far from true indeed, they are too deeply rooted to be dismissed easily.

But after moons and moons of worrying and fretting, the dark shadow of disgrace so tangible that she could almost taste it on her tongue-

\- and gods turn out to be merciful after all.

The joke’s on her, as her son, her first son, does not look like Aegon indeed, but he also does not look like Ned. He doesn’t even look like Sansa, truth to be told. He’s dark-haired and grey-eyed; fussy, sour-faced. If someone had put him on Arya’s breast, everyone would think he’s hers without a question.

Sansa’s son, second in line to inherit the Iron Throne, is all Stark; from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head.

And of course, she was beyond stupid to even consider the possibility that she would not love her child, her own flesh and blood. For, when she traces the arches of his brows and the bow of his lips with her fingertips, she feels herself falling instantly - hard and fast like never before, all the fear escaping from her bones. Looking at her little boy is like glancing at the life she could’ve led, if Father gave her to one of his Northern bannermen – if she ended up as Sansa Umber or Sansa Bolton. A wet nurse soon enough takes over feeding him, but Sansa cherishes the first few times. As her baby suckles on her breast happily, she focuses on the features of his face and plays pretend that he’s swaddled in a grey blanket; that cold winds are blowing outside, making snowflake flutter and dance in the air.

Or conversely; that the sea which she can hear is warm and turquoise, that the walls surrounding them are made of pale stone and that she’s wearing purple.

‘’You’re mine.’’ She whispers, kissing his little hands and his round cheeks, caressing the arches of his tiny feet. ‘’You are all mine.’’

*

Half a kingdom bears witness to little Prince Aemon’s blessing in the Great Sept of Baelor. Even Bran and Rickon arrive with their families; men full-grown now, so unlike to little boys they remained in her memory. But even though she’s delighted to see them again and to bury her face in stunning Northern wolf pelts they bring as gifts, she cannot help but clench her teeth when bitter words threaten to spill out.

They did not deem the births of her legitimate daughters an occasion worthy enough to show up, but they do show up for the blessings of her bastard.

When Septon raises the crying babe up and proclaims him Aemon Targaryen, Sansa bits on her lip hard enough to draw blood. _Aemon Storm, Aemon Waters or Aemon Dayne, or Aemon Stark even, but not a Targaryen, never._

Half a kingdom comes to celebrate, to take part in the grand tourney king Rheagar organized, deaf to the advice of all of those that urged him to wait for Prince’s first name day at least. Half a kingdom; Sansa’s uncle Edmure, Princess Rhaenys and her children, Theon Greyjoy whom she barely recognizes. Arya, shining in her prime, dressed in the finest gown Sansa has ever seen on her and with a circlet of golden metal leaves on her dark locks, Ravella in her arms, her boys around her.

Half a kingdom.

But House Dayne does not make an appearance.

There is a letter, hidden underneath the fake bottom of her jewelry chest – the letter that arrived one week after Aemon was born, delivered by the pure-white dove.

The parchment’s soft, worn-out; writing almost unreadable, but it does not matter. She knows its contents by heart.

_Sincerest congratulations on your happiness, your Grace._

_I share it, with all my heart._

_*_

Looking at her girls pains her now, pierces her heart like a sword with dull, jagged edges every single time. Alyssa came back from the Court changed; she’s taken to wearing her hair up now, focused on practicing her curtsies and stitches instead of devouring book after book as she used to in the past. She has flowered right after Aemon’s birth and now she keeps on mentioning her marriage more and more, even though, gods bless, Aegon firmly stated that she’s still too young to make any definite arrangements.

If someone put a mirror in front of Alyssa, the reflection could as well show young Sansa. And she has never thought this realization would be as terrifying as it is.

_There are no songs in this world, my girl, no great courtly romances. I am so sorry I cannot convince you of this, I am so sorry I did not save you from my own mistakes._ – Sansa thinks desperately, spending hours upon hours on analyzing potential candidates for Alyssa’s hand and wondering where she could possibly send her elder daughter, where she will be happy. She would like to see her in the North, but it’s not even up for discussion. Dorne maybe, if she pleads to Aegon long enough, but no Northern house beyond Starks is nearly grand enough for a Targaryen princess. Which is a shame, truly. Cause Sansa’s quite sure that House Mormont is the only place where Shiera would possibly belong.

As Alyssa grows distant, Shiera grows wilder.

Everyone knew she would be a beauty, they knew it right after she was born and Princess Daenerys whispered to the babe sleeping in her arms – _oh, you are Shiera Seastar, reborn my sweet._ She has porcelain skin and moonlight in her hair, delicate and soft like spider webs, framing her heart-shaped face and contrasting sharply with the striking violet of her Targaryen eyes. Beyond Shiera, Sansa only knows one person who has eyes like that and she’s somehow quite sure her daughter will grow to outshine even brilliant Ashara Dayne.

But no one could potentially expect her fiery temper, so unlike Sansa’s and Aegon’s.

What she lacks in stature, so much smaller than Alyssa’s, she makes up for with sheer spite. Needlework bores her to tears. Polite conversations make her scowl darkly and she stubbornly stays silent or rude enough that whoever talks with her quickly gives up. While dancing, her movements are too erratic, too quick, always making her stand out in the crowd of twirling maidens like a shiny dragonfly surrounded by a swarm of butterflies.

Not permitted to use the sword, she fashions herself a bow.

Not allowed to go outside alone, she sneaks out at night, using the rope from torn-up dress to jump down from her window.

While disciplined, she fights back; when Aegon spanks her one time for swimming naked in the bay, she does not shed a single tear, does not let out a single whimper.

‘’We can thank your sister for all this trouble, I suppose. So from now on, leave Shiera to me. ‘’ Aegon barks to Sansa when she tries to smooth things out.

And Sansa closes her mouth because what else she can do?

Shiera does love Arya with all her heart and does idolize her, and maybe Sansa truly did make a mistake in letting her daughter spend so much time in Stormlands. Shiera is a wolf, is a dragon – she has tasted freedom and now she does not know how to fit inside the cage they closed her in.

When her moonblood comes for the first time, she locks herself up in her chambers for two full days, weeping for hours with a desperation that brings tears to Sansa’s own eyes.

‘’Why does Shiera cry, Mother?’’ Aemon asks curiously, having reached to the age when he questions simply everything.

The years only enhanced his Stark look; _he does not showcase a drop of a Targaryen blood_ , Aegon sighs often and Sansa’s fists clench, her jaw locks. _Because he does not have any._

‘’She just doesn’t feel well, my sweet.’’ She smoothly lies to her son in reply, although maybe it’s not really a lie at all.

*

Aemon’s birth marks the end of Stormlands escapades.

Aegon would not permit that anyway, but it crosses Sansa’s mind from time to time that even if he did, she would not dare to visit Arya. She could possibly persuade him to let her go, provided that she leaves her son at Dragonstone. But then, she might be tempted to write a letter to Starfall and maybe Ned would come to see her and it would all end terribly, terribly beyond imagination.

So, she does not go.

Instead, she embroiders by the fireplace for hours with no end and watches her children grow – her red-headed Tully daughter, her fair-headed Targaryen daughter and her dark-headed Stark son. Aegon hasn’t been in her bed ever since she dragged him there after she got pregnant with Aemon, and their marriage benefits from this separation. They find some sweetness in the companionship without this crushing pressure of having an heir on their shoulders; they often walk together around the island and, during long winter afternoons, Aegon has taken to quietly reading her while she‘s sewing. They even sing together from time to time.

Florian and Jonquil don’t make her heart flutter as they used to in the past. True love is not dashing knights and blushing maidens, no crowns for Queens of Love and Beauty; true love is Arya and Gendry, and Father and Mother, and Jon and Daenerys. Is looking at your beloved and feeling pain in your chest when you have to tear your eyes away. Is shared laughter and shared tears, years well-lived together.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s stolen happiness in the empty chamber of Storm’s End drum tower, Ned’s fingers tangled in her hair and his quiet adoration; Ned’s tongue against her womanhood, his hands on her breasts, his lips on her neck. All preserved in her memory as perfectly as if it happened yesterday.

She does not dare to write to him

Instead, she sends ravens far and near, to all the other castles and holdfasts she can think of, until the gaping hole of loneliness in her chest shrinks a little at the sight of the birds coming back.

Princess Rhaenys ends up becoming her most unexpected friend from across the continent; when she writes about Aegon, it’s always with the same loving teasing that Sansa recalls well from her own relationship with her brothers, and, when a betrothal contract is drawn between Alyssa and Rhaenys’ eldest, Princess promises Sansa to take care of her daughter with such an endearing honesty that tears roll down her cheeks when she reads those lines.

Arya writes often; long, nice letters, narrating Storm’s End hustle and bustle and the amusing anecdotes from the household. Sansa often reads them out loud for Shiera and Aemon, giggling with them at the fond exasperation evident in their aunt’s rambling. 

_You know, I used to wish to leave it all and catch the first ship to some faraway lands where no one knows me, but lately, I realized I’m too old for that. I would not be a sellsword, not even a serving maid – I would probably end up taking care of some rich brats as Old Nan did. As I already have my own rich brats to supervise in addition to my oaf of a husband, I’d rather stay in a place I’m already comfortable in. Gods know what they would do without me._

However, Sansa’s favorite bird is a pretty, young raven that comes bearing her mother’s elegant cursive and the smell of North. Catelyn Stark never fails to send wise advice or some warm words full of motherly love that has withstood time and distance between them. She’s always nagging her for sketches of the kids, writing to them directly also. And Sansa’s heart breaks clean in half the day when she unrolls the scroll ( _dark wings, dark words)_ and sees Robb’s bold lettering announcing the mourning in the North after Lady Stark’s sudden passing.

_The fever was too high for our maester to handle. There is nothing we could do, sweet sister. I am so sorry._

It turns out to be an omen.

*

People are saying sickness came from the water and who knows, there might be some truth in that. Even if the royal household tends to drink more honey and wine that regular water from the bay, serving maids still use it for washing clothes and cooks for cooking.

So maybe it was water, maybe air. Maybe sick-bearing winds blowing all the way from the bogs of the Neck. Maybe it was a curse, or a spell, or gods’ wrath; Sansa heard all those versions and more, and she did not care particularly about any of them.

The reality was that sickness has fallen upon King’s Landing like a cat on soft paws, soundless and unnoticed and it was too late. Deep within Red Keep’s scarlet belly, having arrived for Alyssa’s wedding, Sansa’s family breaks apart.

Lord Varys sneaks Aemon and Jon’s youngest son out the very second Queen Elia starts to cry blood during dinner, but it’s too late for the rest of them. Just as the common people are dying like flies on the streets, noble-born are dying in silk sheets – foul-smelling and covered with blisters, high fever burning them alive. 

Aegon gets sick on the third day of the quarantine. He coughs and coughs and coughs, splattering red on the white cotton that she presses to his lips and his temperature continues to spike, regardless of the strong-smelling ointment that Grand Maester smears on his chest and the cold rags on his forehead.

Silver strands stick to his clammy temples and his breath is short, ragged when he calls for her:

‘’Sansa, Sansa.’’

And she’s there, she’s always there. Family, duty, honor. She’s holding his hand when he trembles in the dead of the night and sings to him; she presses dry, small pecks to his knuckles and tells him about the children he claimed as his, but he does not stop rasping.

‘’Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.’’

As if he knew she was never really there. Never really his.

*

Queen Elia dies first, three days after Sir Arthur lays her down on her featherbed. The man cries hard enough that his whole body’s shaking and not a single person utters a word when he pushes sweaty locks from her forehead and lowers his lips to hers. When Lady Ashara follows her dearest friend into the dark, it looks as if all light escaped from the old knight’s eyes, leaving nothing but two gaping holes in his sunken face.

Jon’s younger sister perishes so quietly, that it takes them a few hours to realize she’s not breathing anymore.

King Rheagar dies at dawn of the first week of the plague and Aegon is a king for half of a day, delirious and without any grasp on reality, before he too passes away at noon.

Sansa does not weep, nor she despairs; she does cry though, locked in her chambers in Maiden Vault. She cries for her loveless marriage and the regret she has, for her orphaned children and their fate. But most of all, she cries for herself and for the fact that she does not feel grief over Aegon’s passing, not even an ounce of it. They shared a bed and a life, and they were good enough companions, but in death, as in life, he remained a mystery for her forever.

One week later, the grand doors of the Keep open again and Sansa emerges, Aunt Lyanna on her one side and Shiera on another, all three of them pale like cave spiders and weak on their feet. Daenerys and Jon still remain inside, too deeply submerged in grief, but Sansa cannot allow herself such luxuries.

She knows full well what’s about to happen now.

*

Two moons after the death of the king – both of them, to be more exact – Sansa kneels on the cold floor of Baelor’s Sept, holding Aemon’s clammy hand when her son is proclaimed the King of The Seven Kingdoms and her, Sansa Targaryen – The Queen Regent. Aunt Lyanna takes the crown off her head, silver one encrusted with blue diamonds and pearls, and puts it on top of Sansa’s. Her hands are shaking slightly. 

And Sansa raises up from her knees to her full height; back straight, chin up, she raises while all gathered bow and curtsy deeply in front of her. Not a single pair of eyes meet hers; except for the blue, blue eyes of the man she hasn’t seen for six long years.

Lord Edric Dayne is smiling, but his eyes betray him the way they always seemed to do, for his stare is nothing but sad. And she wonders, wonders endlessly – as he arrived to see his bastard son crowned, is he silently laughing through tears at the fake history that’s being written on this day? Is he wondering about the secret they will bear until the end of their lives, right until it, hopefully, dies with them?

Has he already realized that the two of them might have just ended the hundreds-years-old dynasty in the span of few summer evenings?

Because that’s all she can think about. That’s all she can do.

*

‘’You asked for me, Mother?’’ Shiera lingers by the doorway and, when Sansa turns around to face her, she immediately recognizes the wild look on her daughter’s face. She’s been like that for moons; starry-eyed, dazed; she’s stumbling on the hems of her gowns as she’s floating through corridors and wears only high collars, trying to cover pink love bites littering her neck.

But Sansa has been there, done that. And she’s not fooled easily.

‘’Yes, darling. Sit with me, please.’’

Shiera flops down on the loveseat next to her and her brows furrow slightly when Sansa takes her hand and laces their fingers together. She inhales deeply; no point in dancing around the subject.

‘’Tell me… how long this has been going on?’’

And Shiera’s big, violet eyes widen and then turn hard; hard like a stone. She does not try to deny or pretend she doesn’t know what Sansa is talking about. No, Shiera’s too proud to play stupid like that; that’s why she decided to confront her outright, without delaying the inevitable.

‘’How do you know?’’ Shiera asks, and then immediately answers herself; ‘’Ah, of course, I forgot what a vipers’ nest King’s Landing is. Varys told you? Or maybe some other gossiping idiots, concerned for my virtue-‘’

‘’Shiera.’’ She cuts her rant gently, squeezing her daughter’s hand when she wants to withdraw it from her grip. ‘’It doesn’t matter who told me. What matters is who this boy is.’’

‘’I am not ashamed.’’ She spits out, all Targaryen fire and fury. ‘’His name is Tom and he works in the stables and he loves me. I am not ashamed.’’

Shiera Targaryen, the Jewel of the Crown, the most beautiful maiden in all Seven Kingdoms - rolling in the hay with the stable boy. Sansa almost fainted when she found out; couldn’t sleep the whole week, tossing and turning in her bed as _what now_ -s were keeping her away. And then, during dinner, she glanced at Aemon’s little dark head adorned with a crown, and she forgot hot to breathe for a second. What rights does she have to judge her daughter, really?

‘’And I would rather kill myself than marry any of those noble, highborn lads that you have lined out for me.’’ Shiera’s voice trembles dangerously for a second, but she collects herself soon; straightens her back and stares right into Sansa’s eyes. Oh, all pale and violet, but she truly is a spitting image of Arya now.

‘’Maybe let’s avoid the talk of suicide.’’ Sansa smiles, just a little, just enough so that Shiera’s brow could furrow in confusion. ‘’Tell me one thing, honestly. Do you truly love this boy? Or you just don’t want to marry a lord?’’

Shiera stays silent for a moment, biting on her lower lip as she’s pondering on the answer in her head quietly. Sansa uses those few minutes to gently sweep some stray strands away from her daughter’s lovely face, tucking them behind her ears. When did her little girl grow up and blossom into this woman sitting by her side? How did it happen?

_Oh, how I wish for my girls to be small again._

Alyssa’s already married, pregnant with her first babe. Far, far away in the Reach, eating pomegranates from golden plates, surrounded by laughter and court games. And she’s happy, or, at least, Sansa truly hopes that she is.

And Shiera, a maiden grown and flowered of one and five, decides her own fate when she nods her head slowly and answers at last:

‘’Yes. Yes, Mother; I do love him very much. And I wish to be never parted with him.’’

*

Her reign lasts a decade and, truth to be told, not many grand things happen throughout them. And she’s thankful for it, as thankful as one can be.

When she was a girl wasting whole afternoons on daydreams of being a queen, she always expected something great and glamorous, worthy of a song. The truth turns out to be much, much harder and much plainer. No battles, thank gods, no wars. Few territorial disputes, minor Grejoy rebellion, wrestling with Iron Bank, but nothing that would require her to take any kind of military command.

Instead, what she mostly deals with, are big and small squabbles in-between nobles that give her terrible headaches. And gossip, gossip first and foremost.

After a few months of correspondence, Tyrion Lannister arrives from Westerlands to serve as her Hand and _gods,_ people talk.

She sends her younger daughter away to Essos under the guise of forging an alliance with Bravoosi nobility and secretly lets her marry a commoner and people talk even more.

She raises the taxes on the Great Houses and spends the money easily on installing a sewer system in King’s Landing and the nobles almost _rebel_ against her. The only reason why they don’t is Stormland’s mighty fleet that appears in Blackwater Bay one morning without any announcement, claiming to ‘practice military maneuvers’.

But it all pales in comparison to the uproar in reactions to gossips of her passionate and frequent correspondence with the lord of Starfall.

It starts around the end of her second year on the Iron Throne.

‘’Look Sansa, a letter from Edric Dayne.’’ Sansa whips her head towards Dany so fast that her neck starts to hurt. Princess has taken to helping her out with some paperwork and handles her correspondence, which is a blessing because Sansa feels that the less official letter she reads, the better she sleeps at night.

Dany is still dressed in mourning. At this point, nobody thinks she’ll ever stop wearing black, but they still whisper behind her back when she passes them on the corridors, words like _broken_ and _hollow_ , following her like a train of a gown. Sansa does not pressure her to talk about either of her dead children and guesses that's mainly why Dany asked her for this governing job in the first place.

‘’I wonder what he may possibly want. Are there any issues in Dorne currently?’’

‘’We know each other. We- we met at Storm’s End, many years ago as I was visiting Arya.’’ Sansa manages to stutter, blood humming in her ears when she stares at the lilac seal.

She takes the parchment from Daenerys with trembling hands and makes up some stupid excuse to fly to the castle’s sad excuse of a godswood to read it alone.

_Your Grace,_

_I humbly hope that I do not infringe on the etiquette by writing so informally to you. I also hope that this letter finds you in good health and that you rest enough. I can imagine that the trials and tribulations of the ruling may have a heavy impact on such a dutiful person as yourself._

_My intention is to ask about our crown king. I must admit that I am concerned for his wellbeing, in a wake of the terrible news of the new outbreak of spring fever in Westerlands. I was told that the young King is a strong lad, who does not succumb to illness easily, but I’m afraid that my insistent worrying forced me to seek confirmation from you personally…_

_Lord Edric,_

_I am touched by your concern. Both I and my son are doing well as, bless the gods, no signs of sickness have been detected in the capital. Aemon is indeed of strong health – I believe he takes from his Stark relatives in this regard. It is said that the mother’s eyes are blind ones, but I have a solid conviction he also is every inch as a well-mannered and good-hearted man as his father. According to his teachers, he excels both in his houses and histories, as well as in sword fighting. I believe that is something very close to your area of expertise? The news of the passing of the Dawn from your uncle to you has reached our ears in the court and I would like to personally congratulate you on this great honor…_

…. _my lady, you must be proud of having such a lad for a son. Children are often a great source of pride and comfort for their parents and I’m sure it’s also a case here. I would certainly feel great happiness if I had an heir similar in nature to King Aemon…._

_… I must admit that I have not played cyvasse ever since our old games in Stormlands. Even though my sister remained an unbeatable champion, partnering with you was my greatest pleasure…_

_…Excuse my informality, but visiting your sister and goodbrother is not nearly as enjoyable as it used to be in the past. I am afraid that the pair of them only intensified public displays of affection in their more mature age. Little lady Ravella is not so small anymore and takes great joy in all kinds of games though. She’s of great intelligence. I heard that you plan to invite her to the court and, if you allow me, I must commend you on this choice. I’m sure that cyvasse and conversations with her will at least partially make up for the lack of your sister’s company…_

The ravens fly back-and-forth, tirelessly, bearing the letters with sigils of a falling star and of a three-headed dragon. Funny thing is, no scandalous word is ever exchanged. The content is always pure like the fresh snow, perfectly proper. Questions about health and children, about crops and trade, about wellbeing and weather.

But of course, people do not know that. What they know, thanks to the ears and eyes in the walls of the Red Keep, is that Sansa spends hours alone in her solar, reading the letters over and over again, all blushed and smiling to herself. It is more than enough for rumors to appear, every new one more wild than the previous one.

By this time, she has already stopped worrying. Nobody can prove her anything and few would dare to try. The only thing she cares about is the secret regarding Aemon, but it doesn’t seem to be a single whisper of doubt about his parentage among the nobility.

Her son grows tall, far taller than her. Turns into a young man quicker than she thought possible, kinder and more honorable every day, and sometimes Sansa wants to weep, when she watches him around his advisors – because surely, this is how her dear, dear Father must’ve looked like when he was young. This is exactly how he looked when he was dining with different members of staff in Winterfell so many years ago, in another life.

Oh, how she misses it sometimes. The older she gets, the more she yearns to be a child again; to take off the weight of the summers and winters from her shoulders like a cloak and to be a girl again, naïve and full of romance. But her home is not in the North anymore, nor was it ever at Dragonstone.

Late at night, she pours herself a cup of wine and reads Ned letters praising the blinding beauty of Dorne. She reads about deserts and mountains and the sea, and a small seed of hope sprouts roots in her heart.

Because maybe it’s not too late for her to find a home for herself after all. 

*

She does not wait for long to leave King’s Landing after Aemon’s ten and sixth name day.

She leaves him with a kiss on a forehead and good advisors. With Tyrion and with Arya, newly appointed Mistress of Coin, who winks at Sansa when she hugs her goodbye ( _go, take care of yourself, sweet sister. I’ll take of your boy for you now)._

And with Ravella Baratheon, seven and ten and still unmarried, regularly beating her son at cards and making him blush as he stares at her lovely dark curls.

Sansa’s head feels light without the weight of the crown on it and she wants to savor this feeling as much as she can. There is a spring in her step as if she was still just a maiden untouched – and although she’s not, she’s not a crone either. She’s a woman grown, finally free.

And there is a ship to Dorne, waiting for her in the docks.

She better catch it. It’s probably about the damn time.

Anticipation tastes sweet on her tongue, sweeter than anything she has ever tasted. Thick and golden like honey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it! It's been a wonderful little project in addition to my gendrya stories and I hope all of you enjoyed it at least half as much as I did. As always, big thanks to Yana, who continues to be the best freaking support system ever <3
> 
> If you liked this story, I would truly appreciate hearing about it in the comments. Being a fanfic writer is a joy in itself, but this joy increases immensely every time I see a review. Also, the more you comment, the bigger is my motivation for writing!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my story - I hope you liked it enough to check out the next chapter, which should be published quite soon ;) Please, leave me your thoughts and opinions in the comment section, I would be eternally grateful for that.


End file.
